A Box of Old Photographs and Proof of Hope
My daughter and I were going through an old box of photographs I pulled from one of our closets. She held up a photograph of a young man.
“Is that you?” she asked. “Think so.”
“What’s that look on your face?” she asked.
“That would be a look of hope.”
“You never look like that.”
I patted her on the back and fished for more photographs. “Not anymore.”
Which is the amazing thing about old photographs; they remind you that once upon a time you had hopes and dreams and all that other silly nonsense you gave up for reality. That’s the one thing I like about boxes full of old photographs and the one thing I don’t like about computers full of old photographs. You can pull out a box of old photographs, dump them on the floor and have a trip down memory lane with your kids. Gathering around the computer to click through old photographs just isn’t the same.
Sure, there are a lot of photographs in that old box that I can’t figure out why they were taken or why we’ve held onto them. For instance, someone in my family seems to have a foot fetish, because there are an awful lot of pictures of someone’s feet in our photo box.
Of course, that’s not the only thing you can learn from a box of old photographs. I learned from old photographs that I was abused as a young boy.
I hadn’t been aware of this fact and had convinced myself that I had a good childhood, but I realize that I was brainwashed.
Because going through old photographs I noticed a disturbing trend. In virtually every picture I appear to be screaming. Not only that, but in the background of the pictures where I am screaming you can see quite clearly the image of my big brother coming after me with something in his hands: a bat, a stick, a crowbar, a chain saw, or other assorted instruments that can be used to cause trauma to a little brother’s body.
I’m going to have my attorney take a look at the photographs to determine if a lawsuit might be in order not only against my older brother but whomever it was taking the picture of me about to be abused instead of trying to stop me from being abused.
My daughter handed me another photograph. “Is that you as a baby?” “Think so,” I said.
“You’re naked. You can see your butt.” “Yes, I am, yes you can, and my butt looks nothing like that anymore.”
Which brings up another question about my childhood: exactly who was taking all of these photographs and why weren’t they putting clothes on me instead?
Because in the pictures where I wasn’t screaming because I was about to be beaten, I was almost invariably naked. I was not aware that I was at one time an exhibitionist, but apparently I was because there is a great deal of photographic evidence detailing my visits to state parks, grocery stores and wedding receptions without any sign of clothing.
Looking through my parents’ box of old photographs of their early years, I discovered that in the old days everyone wore clothing, and a lot of it. I also discovered that in the old days my father had more than two or three facial expressions. I asked him about a couple of phots I came across where he looked, well different.
“Is this a picture of you, Dad?” I asked. “Think so,” he said.
“What’s that look on your face?” My dad patted me on the back. “That would be a look of hope son,” he said.